


The Resolution

by nothandlingit



Series: Holiday Spirit [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M, New Year's AU, New Year's Eve, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothandlingit/pseuds/nothandlingit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say you spend your whole year the way you spend your New Year’s Eve and Emma Swan does not want to spend her year getting mildly tipsy at Granny’s Diner, especially when there is a blue eyed Englishman who wants to jump her as much as she wants to jump him. Part II in the Holiday Spirit series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> So a little birdy (swishandflickwit) might have insisted upon the smutty sequel I had half already planned, so it needed to happen. This is a New Year’s fic to go with puppyodonoghue’s CSSS present (Let Your Heart Be Light).
> 
> Biggest thank you to oubliette14 and lifeinahole27 for their exceptional beta skills and for also being pretty damn all round decent people too ;)

_Hey, you awake?_

She looks at the time, smiling at the fact that he seems to think this is late for her, especially after they’ve spent the last four nights up texting until well after midnight; well into the early hours of the morning, if they’re being honest.

**_What if I was?_ **

_;)_

She grins at the simple little winky face staring back up at her letting her know that he’s probably got some cheeky plan in place for the evening. Relaxing into the couch cushions, she contemplates a response, tapping the phone against her lip in thought. In the end, she just goes with asking him what he’s up to before turning her attention back to the TV and hoping it distracts her enough from the waiting game.

It seems slightly ridiculous that there are literally two flights of stairs between them and they can’t seem to get enough time in a day to actually  _see_ each other. Apparently real life is a thing and she can’t say that she’s been in an honest to God relationship in her adult life, but it seems that you have to attend to your other responsibilities before you attend to the growing need to jump the male human who has made it clear that he’s also been thinking about jumping you.

Which is why, on the 30th of December, Emma has got her phone switched to loud so that she doesn’t miss a text from Killian who is currently still at his office at, she checks her watch, 9:37pm. He works for a record label; he should definitely not be there that late. Although he’d hinted at the fact that he’d had dinner with Adam Levine the night before, so maybe he’s just wining and dining another celebrity. Not that she can complain because it’s not like her hours are any more suitable for a functional relationship – chasing criminals is not exactly a 9-5 job and she often finds herself out late in the evening and early in the morning trying to track down marks.

Despite it all though, despite the fact that she hasn’t physically seen him since the day after Christmas, despite the fact that it’s still so damn new, she’s got those butterflies in her belly reminding her how great he is and how great he makes her feel. They have plans for New Year’s with David and Mary Margaret and surely they can go that long without seeing each other. Surely.

Except that she’s incredibly glad when she hears a knock at her door and checking through her peephole confirms that it is him and he is looking just as fine as she left him on the 26th. Taking a breath and a moment to compose herself and run her fingers through her hair (which is completely matted from shifting around on the couch all day but, hey, he’s seen her at three in the morning so it’s not like he hasn’t already been subjected to the wild mane), she pulls open the door and almost doesn’t know what to do with herself. Because, shit, he’s in a suit and she’s in leggings and a baggy sweater and,  _holy shit_ , those trousers really do wonders for him and… _breathe, Emma, down girl_.

“Hi, love,” he says and maybe she’s just imagining it, but his voice definitely sounds huskier than she remembers. Or maybe he’s just as knocked off his feet by her as she is by him. Crazy idea but, somehow, not so crazy with this guy and his piercing blue eyes roving over her body.

She smiles, not quite trusting her voice just yet, opening the door wider and inviting him in, practically falling in love with him when she sees that he’s brought food – not that she’s lacking in the food department, but eating turkey every day for every meal is starting to get old.

He wanders into her living room, kicking off his shoes as he goes, and it takes every part of her self-restraint to not just launch herself onto his back, wrap her legs around his waist and direct him to the bedroom (seriously, those pants are something else and the way he’s rolled his sleeves up on his white button down, the tie pulled loose and  _are those_  swans on his socks? Ugh, she hates him). Instead, she grabs a couple of plates, spoons and forks and follows him into the room, still amazed at how relaxed he seems to be able to make himself in her home.

If he’s thrown off by how quiet she’s been, it doesn’t show and she supposes that has something to do with the little talk they’d had on Christmas night about being able to feel something between them and just going with it. And she’s grateful for that because she apparently has a lot of thoughts to run through in this inner monologue of hers before she can finally get to the point of simply asking, “What’ve we got?”

He smiles up at her then, pulling out an assortment of boxes from the bag, “Thai. Hope that’s okay?”

Despite all that they have managed to speak about in the last few days, they haven’t covered all their likes and dislikes yet. But he’s done well so far and this is another win, “As long as there’s no turkey in it, I’m good.”

He cracks a chuckle at that and it warms her, finally feeling like this is normal and this could work. Whatever  _this_ is. She takes a seat next to him, bumping her shoulder against his and biting her lip to stop something completely sappy pouring out because there is definitely a high level of affection threatening to overflow at the humble gesture of him bringing her dinner. He seems to understand, leaning down to press his lips gently against hers, a hint of a kiss, pulling back just as quickly and asking, “Is that okay?”

And maybe he’s having just as hard a time adjusting as she is. And maybe that’s just fine.

She smiles back at him, cupping a hand behind his neck and pulling him back down for a proper kiss, the taste of him sweet like some kind of holiday flavoured coffee that she could easily become addicted to. His hand curls on her waist, encouraging her to follow through on what she was already halfway through doing in straddling his hips, her legging clad thighs resting on either side of his easily.

“Gods, love,” he mutters as his lips leave hers and trail down her jawline, marking out a wet path to the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. He feels amazing, his kisses a perfect mixture of tongue and teeth and lips, warm and teasing on her skin. She claws at his shoulders, pulling herself into his touch. “I can’t get you off my mind,” he admits and she moans softly, arching her back and pressing her chest against his while her hips rotate in soft circles on his lap. She doesn’t remember starting that up, but finds that his hands on her waist are guiding her and she can’t bring herself to stop him because those suit pants are not exactly winter weight fabric and she can feel a distinct bulge rising up under her.

“Mmm,” she whimpers, her free hand reaching between them to tug his shirt out of his trousers, fingers itching to touch, to play, to tease, to scratch, to…

An almighty growl breaks free of his stomach before she can even begin to roam and she remembers how hungry she was for food about three minutes ago too, laughing along with his matching chuckle against her neck. He nips at the skin there, lifting at her waist to reluctantly help her off his lap. “Maybe later, lass?” he asks, suddenly shy.

And she’s still trying to wrap her mind around how fast that could have escalated and how much she wouldn’t have minded one bit. “Yeah, definitely later,” she agrees, accepting the spoon he’s passing her and dishing up some of the rice and curries onto her plate, her heart rate still struggling to return to normal with him sitting right next to her, especially when, yes, she can confirm, they  _are_ swans on his socks and who gave him the right to make her feel like a teenager all over again?

She’d revealed that she’s never seen  _Ocean’s 11_ during one of their nights of texting, so he decides to put that on in the background while they eat and catch up on the last few days. Surprisingly, even though they’ve been in pretty constant contact, they have plenty to talk about, their food disappearing slowly as they continue to tell stories over eating. Eventually though, their empty plates rest on the coffee table and she rests on his shoulder and she’s beginning to accept the inevitability of “later” probably not being tonight because she is exhausted.

But tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve and she’ll get to see him again and that’s enough for her to allow her eyes to shut and let the sounds of George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Matt Damon’s voices lull her to sleep.

When she wakes up a few hours later, in her bed, she is only slightly disappointed to see that Killian hasn’t joined her, but also completely understanding and kind of grateful because she clearly needs the sleep. In typical gentlemanly fashion though, he’s left her a note – an honest to God handwritten note – his cursive stating,  _Until later…_

And tomorrow, suddenly, cannot come soon enough.

…

“I don’t get it.”

Emma rolls her eyes at the same time Mary Margaret throws a not-so-subtle punch at her husband’s stomach.

The couple had arrived soon after Killian had gotten to her apartment this afternoon, leaving the pair with very little in the way of private time to explore that whole  _later_  thing. He’d had his hand up her shirt, his intent clear as his thumb had brushed over her already hard nipple, when they’d heard the knock on her door, effectively cockblocking them.

“You’ve seen  _The Hunger Games_ , David,” Mary Margaret hisses.

He looks offended by the hit, but has the decency not to retaliate, instead just protesting with a hiss of his own, “But why do we have to watch the sequel on New Year’s?”

This time she fixes him with a solid glare, ensuring he knows  _exactly_ where he can shove his attitude.

And, in that moment, Emma has never been so happy that she met Mary Margaret all those years ago in high school, because she knows that her friend is just trying to look out for her. It’s been a long time since Emma’s had a guy she’s wanted to bring to the group parties and if they want to watch  _Catching Fire_ before making their way to said party, then they’ll damn well watch  _Catching Fire_. Mary Margaret won’t question it; her husband, on the other hand, will find any reason imaginable to throw Killian off guard, to try and crack his calm exterior and get him to show his true colours.

Which is sweet, in a round-about sort of way because Dave’s always treated her like a sister and she’ll take any family she can get, but it is also completely off-putting because these  _are_ Killian’s true colours and he’s kind of bright and amazing and a whole host of other things that will probably get her in enough trouble for thinking them, let alone speaking them out loud.

Speaking of which, she curls further into Killian’s side, relishing in the feeling of his arm around her tightening just slightly at the overprotective nature of the other male in the room. It’s probably some alpha male tension thing, but she finds herself not particularly caring if it means she gets to spend some time relaxed against her…friend? Guy she is insanely attracted to? Boyfriend? Is it too soon for that? Should they talk about that?

To distract herself from the fact that she’s known the man next to her for a week and is currently more than comfortable in his arms – in the completely innocent way, though she’s sure she’d be utterly comfortable in his arms in any  _other_  way as well – she throws David a bone and tells him, “There’s beer in the fridge; take a drink whenever someone calls Katniss the ‘girl on fire’.”

“Oh thank fuck,” he huffs out, going straight to the kitchen and returning with four beers, handing two to the ladies and leaving Killian’s on the coffee table for him to grab. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Mary Margaret, who has another swipe to the back of her husband’s head ready for him when he sits down.

Emma actually laughs this time because, yeah, he deserves it. But what really makes her grin is the feel of Killian chuckling against her as he presses his smile into her hair. And yeah, they’re new and this is new and  _he_ is new and completely unexpected, but it’s also kind of okay.

…

By the time the movie finishes, they’re all pleasantly buzzed and it feels a little more like New Year’s should. It’s also only 8pm and Mary Margaret and David are already being the sickly-in-love couple that they are, pressing their lips together and whispering about how lucky they are to have each other and get to start their year together and…

Emma nudges Killian in the ribs, pulling his attention from the couple on the other couch who are completely and utterly wrapped up in each other. “You get used to them,” she promises, taking advantage of their distraction to press her own sweet kiss against Killian’s lips, withdrawing before he can start to kiss her back because, sure, they’ve only known each other a week, but it has been a very charged week and she’s not sure what will happen if he kisses her while she’s leaning against him – even with other people in the room.

Even the chaste moment seems to grab the attention of David’s ‘big brother radar’, the man pulling back immediately from Mary Margaret and suggesting that they get going if they want to make it to the party at Ruby’s grandmother’s diner, aptly named Granny’s. They’ve been going there for New Year’s celebrations as long as Emma can remember, Ruby having been Mary Margaret’s college roommate. They only ever really see each other at New Year’s these days, Ruby off gallivanting the world for most of the year, but always returning home to host this party.  

Killian fights to suppress his eye roll but Emma doesn’t even try to hide hers. “Yes,  _dad_ ,” she says, standing up and pulling her boots on, accepting the coat Killian helps her into; it  _might_  be the green one she’d borrowed the morning they met. She might be planning on keeping it forever.

With the alcohol from their little drinking game buzzing in their veins, they decide to walk the few short blocks to Granny’s, Mary Margaret commenting on how lucky they are that Emma happened to move to an apartment so close to the diner. Killian grabs her hand and mutters in her ear that if they lived further away, would that mean they could avoid having David glare at them before the party next year. And it should terrify her that he’s already thinking about next year and bringing up things like where they’re going to be living, but it doesn’t. She squeezes his hand back and whispers, “Trust me, he’s going easy on you.”

Killian raises his eyebrows at that but says nothing further on the subject as they move towards the diner, none of them walking all too fast, happy to enjoy the cool air on their alcohol flushed cheeks. Not to mention, with David and Mary Margaret slightly ahead of them, Emma can take a moment to just  _be_  next to Killian, out in the open, holding hands like couples do. It’s nice, she muses, leaning into his side a little further, her head resting on his shoulder briefly before straightening up and smiling at him.

His answering grin makes her heart flutter and she wonders how it is that she’s managed to find someone who she can communicate with, with only a look, so quickly. He leans in to kiss the tip of her nose, which is completely innocent in itself but sends her heart hammering anyway. And also catches the attention of David once again, the other man checking on them over his shoulder and calling out that, “We’re going to be late if you two don’t keep up.”

Emma’s not sure, but she thinks Mary Margaret definitely elbows him this time.

…

“Bloody hell, woman,” Killian exclaims, joining Emma at the drinks table, “You did not warn me about Ruby!”

Emma smiles into her glass as she sips at her rum and cola, “Nothing can prepare you for that whirlwind.”

He quirks an eyebrow, stealing her drink from right under her nose and downing it himself, ignoring her protests. “No, I needed that. I did not need to have my arse described to me in such elaborate terms.”

She laughs, grabbing the glass and pouring herself another drink. “It  _is_ a nice butt,” she says, grinning when he manages to sputter a little. She could get used to having him speechless for her.

But, as always, he recovers so damn well, pouring himself a rum and sneaking in a quick, “I much prefer those comments coming from the woman I’m trying to bed, just so you’re aware,” and making Emma’s eyes widen just before Ruby joins them at the table.

“Emma! You didn’t mention you were seeing someone the last time we spoke. I need to know these things.” She’s more than a little tipsy, her painted red bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“It’s only recent,” she says quickly, still trying to recover from Killian’s little revelation that isn’t really a revelation but,  _Jesus,_  does he have to say it so… like that?

Because talking about bedding her in public is liable to lead to the actual bedding happening far sooner than is socially acceptable. She’s already scouting the room for dark corners while simultaneously knowing they really  _can’t_ do that here.

“Well, there are rooms available upstairs if you need,” Ruby hints (sometimes Emma wonders if she has some kind of sixth sense that allows her to peer into her innermost thoughts), topping up her gin with a dash of tonic, “Can’t have you heading into the new year without knowing if the goods match the looks.” She winks and then she’s off again.

Emma leans across the table, pressing her fingers to the underside of Killian’s chin, closing his mouth and getting his attention. He simply shakes his head and turns his attention from the brunette who is now scandalising Mary Margaret and David. “Let me guess,” he says, “ _She_  grows on you as well?”

But Emma shakes her head this time, “No, Ruby will always be the friend you’ll feel weirdly uncomfortable around.” Then, licking her lips, she glances down before flicking her eyes back up to his, “But she does have a point.”

The look in his eyes turns immediately from one of embarrassment to one of heat and Emma knows she’s got him; hook, line and sinker. “Thinking of getting out of here, lass?”

She smiles and sips on her drink, “Well, they do say you spend your whole year how you spend your New Year’s Eve…”

He’s got that predatory stalking motion going for him again, moving in close to her, lips grazing the shell of her ear, the warmth of his breath sending pulses of heat between her thighs, “And how would you like to spend the year?”

She kisses his cheek before pulling back and just raising her eyebrows at him, knowing the innuendo is dripping off her every motion at the moment. And he gets it, she knows he gets it because his eyes are more black than blue and he’s looking at her like she’s something to devour. Not that she’d mind even a little bit if he did. In fact, tasting her is  _highly_  encouraged.

_God,_  she reminds herself,  _it has only been a week_.  

The other, bigger, part of her reminds her that she’s done this before without even knowing the guy’s name. But it’s probably the fact that it  _has_ been a week that makes her feel like she needs to be a little bit cautious. She hasn’t felt this way in a long time, if ever, and it’s definitely uncharted territory for her in terms of pacing and taking her time.

It’s a new year though and she is finding that this whole holiday season is pretty damn liberating. She  _wants_ long term with him, she  _wants_ the holidays and the familiarity and everything that comes with it. And maybe she wouldn’t have known that for the longest time, but he came along at just the right moment and it’s anything but wrong.

With her eyes still focused solely on him, she purposefully sits her drink down, “Tell you what, I  _don’t_  want to spend my year getting mildly tipsy at Granny’s diner.”

He nods, following her lead and placing his glass down next to hers, “Only mildly tipsy, love?”

Smiling, she grasps his hand, “Definitely still got my wits about me.”

“Even more so after a leisurely stroll back to our building, I’m sure.”

Something sparks in her at that, “Not too leisurely, I hope.”

He drops the cool, calm and collected act at her admission, sighing in relief, “Oh thank bloody fuck for that. I need you, Emma.”

And that’s it. The spark ignites and she  _needs_ to get out of there in the fastest and most inconspicuous way possible, because she knows that alerting David to their exit will only encourage the man to engage Killian in a rousing game of darts or something equally time consuming, delaying their departure until Emma is likely to spontaneously combust from the fire in her veins pooling heat in a very specific bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

“You go wait outside; I’ll do the rounds and meet you in a minute.”

He nods, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek and even that is too much contact because she just wants to breathe him in in that moment, her skin burning where his scruff has tickled her. Seemingly realising that his actions have completely thrown a spanner in the works, he pushes her gently in the direction of where Mary Margaret seems to be getting a lesson from Ruby in a new sex position –  _Hmm, not bad_ , she thinks, quirking her head to follow the way Ruby’s hands are moving together.

Throwing a look over her shoulder to confirm that Killian’s made a clean get away, she quickly makes her way over to her old friend, looping an arm through hers and waiting for Ruby to finish up her explanation. But as soon as she arrives, the brunette stops speaking, looking Emma up and down before raising her eyebrows, “I know I offered you a room, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt that you’re leaving me before midnight.”

Mary Margaret looks up at the two women with confusion, “What’s…?”

But Ruby cuts her off, “Emma’s using her New Year’s Eve to get laid.”

“Ruby!” she exclaims, not sure if she’d put it so crudely. But, after a moment, she has to shrug and concede that yeah, “She’s right,” to Mary Margaret.

Because that’s exactly what she’s doing – skipping out on friends to try and put out these flames under her skin.

For her part, Mary Margaret looks strangely proud, “I told you all you had to do was open up to the possibility of love.”

But she holds her hands up at that, “Whoa! No one said anything about love.”

The old college roommates share a knowing look that makes Emma want to roll her eyes and maybe vanish into a hole in the ground. Instead, she just gives a hug to both of the women, “Can you just make sure David doesn’t stalk us home to interrupt? Killian’s okay. I trust him.”

Mary Margaret pulls back from their hug to brush a hand against Emma’s cheek, the friendly gesture almost motherly in a way – whatever Emma did right in her life to deserve this woman’s friendship; she’s glad she did it. “Go, have fun. We’ll see you in the new year.”

She smiles gratefully at her friend before waving and leaving her to continue learning the best way to ride her husband. Shaking her head at Ruby’s endless sex knowledge, she makes her way out of the diner without much further ado and is greeted, once more, by that green coat that she’s come to love so much, held onto by the man who she could  _one day_  love so much. It’s a weird feeling, running towards him and knowing he’ll be there to catch her. And catch her he does, wrapping his arms around her slim waist, beneath the coat, and pressing his lips against hers.

His face is cold, but it does nothing to stop the heat rushing through her, her response just as enthusiastic as his, lips chasing even as he tries to pull back enough to commence their walk home. But she just  _needs_ this for a moment, needs the desperation of his tongue on hers, needs the danger of getting caught as she slips her hand down between their bodies to cup him through his denim jeans, her knuckles nudging against the seam of her own trousers and sparking arousal deep within her, needs his sharp groan, needs  _him_.

“Emma,” he tries, her name a sigh into her mouth, “Emma, love, we need to stop.”

And she hates that her voice is caught somewhere between a whimper and a whine when he pulls away, because she’s always been the independent one, the one who doesn’t need another person. But, right now, he’s all she can think about and she’s slowly coming around to the idea that that doesn’t make her any less strong or independent – it just makes her horny and so far from alone that she could almost float on the feeling because it feels  _good._

“I know. I know,” she finally gets out, forehead resting somewhere between his temple and his cheek, trying to calm her breathing, “Can we at least walk quickly though?”

His hips shift forwards, pressing his obvious erection into her hand, “What do you think?”

…

They make it back to their building in record time, the walk cooling them off enough that they don’t make a public display but not enough that they can get past the fact that Killian’s apartment is a whole two floors below hers and, really, getting up those final two flights of stairs is way too much effort.

Kissing her neck as he unlocks the door, they stumble through together, Emma trying to get her bearings while her skin is tingling beneath his touch. There’s a Bob Marley print on one wall, a beautiful old record player in the corner by a window and a well-used acoustic guitar standing next to his TV. She’d known he worked in the music business, but this is a nice glimpse into  _him._

“You can explore later, I promise,” he says, unzipping her (his?) coat and dropping it to the floor as he steps her backwards towards the first flat surface he can find. Her knees hit the back of his couch within seconds.

“Someone’s impatient,” she says through a laugh as his hands grip around her ribs, tickling her even as it makes her body light up in the kind of shivers that settle at the base of your spine and spread warmth through you.

He pulls back at that, searching her face before asking, “We can take it slow, if you want, darling.”

And he’s so sincere that it actually might cause her heart to melt and her ovaries to burst and all those other weirdly mushy things that she never thought she would be privy to. She smiles at him reassuringly, her hand coming to rest upon his cheek, thumb drawing across a little scar under his eye and thinking it might be nice to know how he got it. Not today, but some day in the future. Because she can see a future with him.

She was getting pretty tired of running anyway.

“We’re going to do this, right? The getting to know each other thing and the boyfriend/girlfriend thing, the heavy conversations and the opening up and…everything.” He’s nodding along with her and it amazes her still that he’s so on board with it all, that he wants her and he’s not playing games or hiding and she doesn’t feel the need to play games or hide either. “Then don’t we deserve the fun side of it too?” To punctuate her point, she slides her free hand down his back to grip his ass and pull him into her, itching to feel that burning desire the way she had outside of Granny’s again.

To his credit, he takes a moment to answer, a moment to actually acknowledge her words. But, when he does speak, she knows there was never any other answer. “Aye, lass,” he practically hums against her throat as he ducks his head to latch onto her skin once more. And if she thought it had been unrestrained passion before, it had  _nothing_  on this. It’s like the fog has cleared, all doubts have left him taking hers with them.

She’s moaning and whimpering and trying her very hardest not to fall back on the couch because she so badly wants him to take her to bed. He seems to get the hint, because his hands land on her hips again, spinning her around and guiding her towards a hallway to their right.

Her eyes catch on some of the photos he’s got on the walls, the subject matter distracting her momentarily, “Is that…?”

But he pulls her back to him, pushing open a door to his bedroom and bringing her through with him, “It is,” he says without looking at the photo of him with the red-haired singer, adding, “Perks of working for a major record label,” with a wink.

He is just full of surprises, “So when you said you were having dinner with Adam Levine the other night…”

“I was having dinner with Adam Levine. And a whole host of other people, but he was there.”

“Right,” she says, absorbing the news that her new…boyfriend – it’s boyfriend, right? – apparently rubs shoulders with the rich and famous and  _chose_ to hang out with boring old her and her regular friends at their mundane diner and… _shit_.

It takes her a moment to realise he’s not kissing her anymore, not trying to unbutton her blouse, not palming her through her jeans. “Emma,” he prompts gently, “You with me?”

She shakes her head, still trying to wrap her head around this man. “Why me?” she finally asks, hoping he understands what she means. Because surely he would have his pick of women out there, surely he could be living somewhere so much nicer than this building, could be spending his time with people who actually brush their hair and wear revealing dresses and sip champagne and…

“There was never a choice, Emma. You laughed at me when I was wearing too many layers and that was it.”

Her eyebrows raise at that, “Be honest, though. Were you invited to Times Square?”

He nods, answering honestly, “Like I said, it wasn’t even a choice.”

She’s still slightly losing her mind over the fact that he had the option to go see Jessie J perform (probably from side of stage) and he chose to watch _Catching Fire_ with her and go to a diner.  _And_ he had to endure David.

And suddenly it’s entirely too much,  _he’s_ too much.

It takes her a moment to focus on him again but, when his face stops blurring before her, she finds it oddly comforting that he’s smiling.

“Hey,” he starts, leading her over to the edge of the bed to sit, “I know you want to do the whole get to know each other part gradually, but something you have to know about me is that I don’t fit the mould of whatever lifestyle you’re imagining right now.”

She goes to protest, but he takes hold of her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips briefly before continuing, “I can see the fear in your eyes. But you don’t have to change for me. I like you the way you are. I like watching movies about dystopian futures with you and I enjoy speaking to your friends, even if I’m sure David wants to kill me.” He lowers his gaze for a moment and she can see him contemplating telling her something more. Part of her wants to know what he has to say, another part of her is terrified of what she is about to hear.

Eventually he raises his head again and Emma sees nothing but clear honesty in his eyes. “It’s probably crazy, but I can see a future with you. Something real.”

It strikes her then that he’s looking for the only thing she can offer – normalcy.

Inclining her head towards him, she decides to offer up a little of herself in return, hoping beyond hope that it’s enough for him, that she can be _enough_. “The way you spend your New Year’s is how you will spend your year, right?”

He nods slowly, clearly surprised that she’s still speaking to him.

She smiles, “I wanted to spend tonight with you because it would mean I’d have the slightest chance of spending the year with you.” She can feel the blush rising up on her cheeks, but she keeps going, finishing with, “So, no, you’re not crazy. Or, at most, you’re only as crazy as I am.”

A slow smile spreads across his face at her admission and she finds herself unable to stop herself from matching it.

“Insane, then?” he asks, leaning towards her again.

“Batshit insane,” she confirms, capturing his lips in a sweet kiss.

And this time it feels like it’s open and real and the beginning of something amazing.

His fingers return to the buttons on her shirt, flicking them one by one with so much patience it almost hurts. But Emma lets him go slow, wanting to savour it as well, wanting to make it last. It’s been so long since she’s had something to hold on to.

Her hand slides up his side, his shirt bunching under her fingers, muscles tensing in the most tantalising way. They take a moment to breathe and remove tops as quickly as they can, the material falling in a heap on the floor, before returning to each other, lips sliding deliciously together, his tongue laced with rum and a musky sweetness that’s all him.

He urges her backwards, the bed once again their main target, one that they hit this time, her body falling back and his following without resistance, bracing himself on his forearms as she scrambles up to the pillows, expecting him to join her. But, when she looks down her body, she finds that his chin is poised over the waistband of her jeans, his breath blowing out in a warm stream across the sensitive skin below her belly button. His eyes are begging permission and she sits up on her elbows to nod her head, grinning when he immediately attacks her button and fly on her jeans and tugs the barrier down her legs, leaving only her lacy underwear covering her.

That predatory look is back on his face and she assumes it has everything to do with the fact that her panties match her bra, the bright blue, which pays homage to his eyes, definitely purposeful.

“Someone was thinking ahead,” he murmurs, biting down on the lace, breathing hotly right where she needs him.

Somehow she keeps her wits about her enough to nod, but then his thumb is swiping the fabric aside and his tongue is on her and her arms can’t support her anymore, falling back on the bed as her fingers grip the duvet beneath her. His tongue explores lower and lower until its tasting the inside of her and she wants to scream with how incredible that feels – she expects he can taste her encouragement at that particular move and while this act, in the past, has made her feel vulnerable, with him, she feels empowered and exotic and, “Fuck, don’t stop,” she moans as he begins humming against her, the vibrations making her see stars. His thumb neglects the edge of her underwear, instead circling her clit in wet strokes as she rotates her hips along with the motion. She’s climbing higher and higher, her body on that delicate edge of oblivion and then he pulls back, her hips rocking forward on the bed, trying to follow his lips and his fingers and, “What are you doing?” she manages to breathe out, one of her hands uncurling from the bed and resting atop her flushed mound, intending to finish the job herself.

He smiles, his lips wet with her, and bats her hand away, adjusting himself in the cradle of her thighs, spreading her wider and positioning himself at her clit, “Trust me.”

And she does.  _Shit_ , she does.

His free hand ducks down to her entrance, two fingers sliding into her slick passageway easily, pumping against that sensitive little spot within her. Her head drops back and he chuckles at how lost she is, leaning in to pull her swollen bundle of nerves between his lips, gently sucking and drawing her over the edge in seconds as the world shatters behind her eyelids. And just as she’s coming down, he sucks a little harder and his tongue flicks a little faster and she’s coming again with aborted breaths and a cry that might be his name or might be a prayer to some deity she didn’t know she knew before now.

And then his fingers slip from her tight grip and he’s kissing his way up her sweaty body, leaving a trail that’s a little bit her and a little bit him up over her stomach. Her eyes open slowly, meeting his gaze when the fog around her head finally dissipates. He’s smiling at her and she wonders if she looks as thoroughly fucked as she feels.

There are a thousand things she could say to him right now, a million ways to communicate how incredible that was and how much she feels like she’s made the best choice ever for her New Year’s. But, apart from mewls and moans, she’s pretty lost on how to form words, so she kisses him instead and that’s pretty damn great too because he tastes like sex and the fire in her belly is stoked once more.

He growls as her hands explore his chest, nails raking over his nipples and around to his broad shoulders. “Mmm, feels s’good, lass,” he murmurs against her lips, lowering his body to hers so they’re skin to skin, “Bloody amazing.”

She finally finds her voice, arching under his welcome weight as he begins another trail of fire down her neck and across her collarbone. “Not so bad yourself,” she half whispers, half moans as his fingers finally unclasp her bra and help her slide it off her arms, her breasts warm against his chest and then hot and aching under his mouth as he latches onto a nipple and hums his approval.

“C’mere,” she says, pulling him up, a jolt of arousal shooting straight to her core as he comes away with his teeth scraping her skin, a sly grin on his face that tells her he knows exactly what he’s done.

She quirks her own lips up at him, then leans up to kiss him again, wrapping her legs around his waist and raising her hips enough that she can feel the still present denim of his jeans rubbing against her wetness, “You should probably get these off.”

There’s no protest from him, helping her shove the offending garment off his hips and down his legs, taking his briefs along for the ride and leaving him completely bare. And she can’t help herself, she  _has_ to look, her eyes glancing down his body and licking her lips at the full thickness of him straining towards her.

And the cocky bastard has the nerve to ask, “So,  _do_  the looks match the goods?”

She doesn’t even have the heart to knock him down a few notches because, yes, he’s fucking hot and, yes, he’s going to be fucking her in a minute if she has anything to say about it and, God, she needs him inside of her, every glorious inch.

So, instead of stoking his ego, she arches an eyebrow and just says, “Condom?”

He must know though, must know the kind of hardware he’s been dealt in life because he grins a little wider before dipping his head to kiss her again, arm reaching out to the drawer beside his bed. She hears it slide open and closed within seconds and all she can think is that she wasn’t the only one thinking ahead because the next time there’s a break in all the kissing, he’s bringing the little foil packet to his teeth and tearing it easily.

She helps him out, sitting up while he kneels above her, to pull her soaked panties off. Somehow, though, that puts her at a perfect height to lean forward just a few more inches and take his hard and heavy cock into her mouth before he even has a chance to grasp what she’s doing.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses, one hand holding the condom off to the side, still in its packet, the other cradling the back of her head as she opens her jaw a little and takes him deeper into her welcoming mouth, her tongue circling the head of him, tasting his saltiness and humming in contentedness because this is something she could really get used to.

She knows he’s losing it a little when his grip on her hair tightens, a strained, “Ahh,” falling from his lips. Sucking gently and releasing him with a small ‘pop’, she tilts her head back and smiles up at him.

“One day we’ll finish that another way,” she says, the promise coming easy to her.  _One day_  seeming more and more possible.

He swallows, “More than happy with that, love.” And then he’s rolling the condom on and she’s lying back on the bed, opening her legs to accept his weight once more.

He’s just as thick as he looks when he enters her, the stretch something she’d become unaccustomed to in the last few years. But he goes slow and lets her catch her breath before bottoming out and stealing it away again because he’s so deep and it feels  _so good_ and, “Move, you can move,” she pants, eyes meeting his and seeing that he’s just as lost as her.

“Just,” he grunts, running, at first, one hand down her arm and then the other, grasping her hands and pulling them up above her head, “Just like that.”

She smiles, completely at his mercy, rolling her hips up to meet his first gentle thrusts, feeling his body heating above hers and wondering if the same flush that’s graced his body has also graced hers. He looks amazing up there, sinking into her over and over again, the hot length of him brushing her clit just right on each downward stroke. And she’s surprised because she usually needs a hand down there amongst it all, directly pinching or rolling her sensitive nub, to bring her over the edge, but he’s got her feeling that tight coil of arousal without anything but that gorgeous cock and, yeah, she’s not letting him go any time soon.

“Please tell me you’re close,” he huffs out, “Because you feel too good, lass. I’m so close.”

She can feel it too, the tight snap of his hips becoming more and more erratic, the clench of his hands on hers unbelievably strong, the light sheen of sweat coating his body, everything adding to that heightened sense of arousal, heady and warm in the air.

“Come,” she urges, “Come for me.”

And it must be the confirmation he needs because, next thing she knows, he’s resting his forehead against hers and muttering, “You too, you too, come with me too,” against her cheek in hot, wet breaths until she’s right there with him, eyes slamming shut and hips jumping off the bed as his cock stills inside of her, pulsing into her tight heat.

“God, Emma,” he moans into her neck, where his head has fallen.

Outside, the echoes of fireworks displays across the city have begun ringing out, marking the start of a new year and Emma can’t help but laugh in a kind of euphoric way as Killian slides out of her, removing the condom and tying it off to throw in the bin by his bed (really, who was more prepared?).

“What?” he asks gently, his accent somehow thicker in the afterglow. She likes it.

She kinda likes him as well.

“Fireworks are just…appropriate,” she answers, rolling on her side to rest her head against his chest, his heart still beating fast beneath her ear.

He chuckles and she feels that too, a deep rumbling thing that comforts her, “Hmm, definitely a good way to kick off the year.”

…

It’s 3am when she wakes up again, her body clock completely thrown off since that fateful morning a little over a week ago when she’d been roused from sleep by a fire alarm. Not that she’s complaining because the rest of the reasons for her tiredness have stemmed from the man on the other side of the bed. Speaking of which, he’s still there. And she’s still there. And that’s a pretty big deal.

She turns her head, kissing his chest, before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and going to stand up. His hand catches her wrist and pulls her back to him though, his voice mumbling into the darkness, “Stay.”

Crawling back up again, she kisses him on the lips this time, his response lazy and not quite awake. It makes her pretty giddy that his natural reaction seems to just be to hold her close. “I have to use the bathroom,” she whispers, pulling away to slip on the shirt he’d been wearing earlier and stepping out into the hallway to navigate her way through his unfamiliar apartment.

She stubs her toe on a bookshelf she doesn’t remember seeing there before (probably distracted by the photo of Killian with Ed Sheeran. No big deal), but eventually finds her way to the bathroom, flooding the hall with light as she does her business and makes her way back towards the bedroom. Something catches her eye though, a series of bright books not sitting in the shelf right, as though they’d been bought and hurriedly put down, not yet read.

She runs her hand over the spines, smiling at the titles she sees, before heading back into bed. Seems he’s gone out and bought  _The Hunger Games_ trilogy.

Killian’s awake now, sitting up with the lamp by his bed on and waiting for her, “Exploring, love?”

She crawls back in beside him, curling up against his side and resting a hand on his chest just to ground herself and remind her that he is really there, “Just checking out your reading choices.”

He nods in recognition, “I need to know what happens next.”

“Hope that doesn’t mean you want to give up our new holiday tradition,” she muses, only a little bit nervous of his answer despite his earlier reassurances that his lifestyle and his job don’t match, because he could just as easily decide that his cool famous friends are more worth his time. It’s stupid, but she likes having these quiet moments with him. And she’s looking forward to Mockingjay at Easter even though she knows he’ll probably want to watch it before then.

But, as always, he sets her mind at ease and plants a kiss on the crown of her head, “Not for the world, Emma.”

…


End file.
